


The Louvre Palace, 24 January 1636

by Anima Nightmate (faithhope)



Series: All For One and, well, you know the rest... [15]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Censorship, Correspondence, Decryption, Embedded Images, Espionage, F/M, Franco-Spanish War, Gen, Mild Innuendo, Secret Messages, Some Historical Fudging, War, Wartime, coded messages, encryption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 05:30:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16056515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithhope/pseuds/Anima%20Nightmate
Summary: His letter finds her finally. As everything continues to shift, his sprawling handwriting anchors her to a solid point.14th December 1635Dearest Constance,Your letter took only ten days to arrive, but we have been hard atitfighting, and this is my first stretch of quiet time since then.*Another installment in the long series of wartime correspondence (and other pieces based around the black box that is the Musketeers during the Spanish War).





	1. Render Unto Caesar

**Author's Note:**

> Embedded letter images will have a text version in the end notes.

His letter finds her finally. As everything continues to shift, his sprawling handwriting anchors her to a solid point. It is a little bulkier than she would have imagined, and rather battered and weather-stained, but the plain wax seal is intact, and the grubby twine that binds it is whole.

On unfolding it, another, much smaller letter, tightly folded and addressed to **_Mme. d’Artagnan_** in a strong and tantalisingly familiar hand, drops out. She has a suspicion, and lays it to one side to read the main:

Ah, she smiles, so the other letter _is_ from Athos. She strokes over the lines of her husband’s hand, grins all over again at the many, _many_ emphases. It’s as if she can hear him. Her eyes close for a little moment, breathing deeply.

She unfolds the other letter unhurriedly, and feels her face drop to a frown as its content is revealed. In very clear, well-formed, but utterly incomprehensible handwriting, taking up only half the page, she sees this:

She once carried some correspondence for the Hungarian envoy that looked something like this, but with acutes and other accents on far more letters. But, even then, she was sure that it admitted more vowels into its words.

She flashes to the late Comte’s correspondence, and her eyebrows climb as she realises what this is. And, knowing Athos, there are layers within layers here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #### Text of d’Artagnan’s letter to Constance:
> 
> 14th December 1635
> 
> Dearest Constance,
> 
> Your letter took only ten days to arrive, but we have been hard at ~~it~~ fighting, and this is my first stretch of quiet time since then.
> 
> War is mostly waiting. And then shouting and running and dodging and fighting. And then waiting again. Sometimes we are called upon to be more Musketeers than soldiers, if you catch my drift, and it’s more like any mission from before, but there’s not much of that.
> 
> My armour is heavier than I expected, and I know that’s silly, but there it is. They tell me I’ll get used to it, and I believe them, but I’ve had to change a lot of my fighting style – slower, you know? My poor horse was injured three days ago. He would not have recovered. It’s a shame to bring them to the battlefield, but you can’t deny the advantage.
> 
> We arrived at [text incompletely but effectively obscured by black lines]
> 
> I’m not allowed to tell you where we are, apparently. That makes sense, or, well, for some campaigns it will make more sense. Anyway, I can’t tell you where we are. But your letter found me, and that – Constance you can’t know how much it means, but I swear I could still smell your scent as I unfolded it and that was ~~nice amazing~~ wonderful.
> 
> I hope you are well. Porthos took a fall the other day and was out for a couple of hours. I think it was harder for Athos [text inserted here above the line: “than for me”] – he had to just give orders to get him back to the infirmary tent. [text inserted smaller and at an angle, as though after the fact: “He’s fine now – Porthos is fine.”]
> 
> He is, of course, an amazing Captain. He was practically doing it before, but, once we set off, you could see him properly putting it on himself, like a cloak, and he’s everywhere – asking questions, giving orders, making plans, breaking up fights (yes, there are fights – especially in the waiting times), sorting all the supplies, never mind leading each charge. Porthos tells him, at least twice a day, that he’s doing too much. He, of course, ignores him or tells him that this is the job. “Not bloody counting the chickens though!” says Porthos, and he’s right – Porthos – but Athos worries. And then he’s on the battlefield, and it’s like – I don’t really have the words for it, but it’s like everything drops away and he can see everything so clearly around him, and he rises up, directs us to the best place for us to be.
> 
> I’ve not given him his gift [text inserted here above the line: “from you”] yet. You’ll both have to wait. There has been some time – a little! – in which to exchange gifts, but yours needs something a bit more special, I think. More time. Or maybe I’ll just surprise him some evening. Hard to believe that it’s nearly Christmas.
> 
> I enclose a message from Athos. He insisted. Don’t blame me. He also bids me tell you that the key lies with Caesar, whatever that means.
> 
> He’ll never say, but Porthos is clearly missing him. Athos tries to keep him busy, but he’s so quiet. Well, quiet for Porthos.
> 
> I’m rubbish at ending letters, so I’ll just stop here.
> 
> I remain, your loving husband: _d’Artagnan_
> 
> P.S. Athos and Porthos both send their love. Each in their own way, of course.
> 
> #### Text of Athos’s encoded letter to Constance:
> 
> Wvzi Xlmhgzmxv,
> 
> R slkv gsrh nvhhztv urmwh blf dvoo.  
>  Gsv dvzgsvi sviv rh zylnrmzyov –  
>  yb gfimh fmhvzhlmzyob hdvogvirmt  
>  zmw gliivmgrzo. Dv ziv mlg bvg  
>  wildmrmt, sldvevi.
> 
> R ollp ulidziw gl blfi ivkob.
> 
> Drgs zuuvxgrlm,
> 
> _Zgslh_


	2. Key of A Minor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you clever clogs got the coded message straight off the bat. Some of you will be happy to follow Constance’s deductions. Some of you will presumably be the same people…
> 
> As ever, text for embedded images will be in the end notes.

The Queen has told her a little about coded messages, though not enough to allow her to easily disentangle this. But if Rochefort could do it, she thinks, with a lift of her chin, so can she.

She scans over it again. It is definitely a letter, with greeting at the top and signature at the bottom, though he’s even encoded that. She shakes her head, smiling. Well, that’s a start, she realises. The five letters of _Zgslh_ must stand for _Athos_ , so Z means A, g means t, and so on. She turns over a list, picks up a pencil, and scrawls the alphabet rapidly down the blank leaf, adding the known letters next to them, so that it looks like:

And she knows more, she realises – running her fingers along the top line to count the letters. _Wvzi Xlmhgzmxv_ means _Dear Constance_.

Her list now looks like:

She frowns over this for a few minutes, wondering how to extract the other letters without any other ready clues. Shaking her head she decides to leave it until her day’s real work is done.

*

Back in her rooms at the end of the day, she throws her shawl over a chair and starts to loosen her corset, more than ready to slump, weary of the endless procession of questions, nods, and standing silent, now that Treville has his trusted adjutants, and the Dauphin a proper governess again, leavened only by the occasional press of the Queen’s soft hand, the sheer gratitude in her blue, blue eyes. Her gaze sweeps over the grid on the table and she notices that H means S and S means H, which symmetry leads her to look at the beginning of the alphabet, where the letters of the end cluster in translation and suddenly it’s all clear, and ridiculously simple now she holds the key to it, though what Caesar has to say about it all is anyone’s guess. She fills the rest of the grid in with rapid sweeps of pencil, and starts to transcribe Athos’s letter. The reason for the narrow span of the words is now clear – he has deliberately left her space to translate:

  
She sits back, a little disappointed that her efforts have brought her something so… ordinary. And yet… she scans again. _We are not yet drowning, however_. Ah. Good. She blesses him for this, even though it is ridiculously, _typically_ Athos.

_I look forward to your reply_. No point in writing anything more elaborate until he knows that she can read it without, for example, taking it to Treville, or one of his trusted clerks.

Well, she thinks, must show herself an apt student. And, forgetting her weariness, with a smile half composed of pure mischief, she sets about her own missive:

There, she thinks, that ought to do it. And, with that, she makes her evening ablutions and takes herself off to bed, to hold them close in her heart and her mind’s eye, rocking herself, gasping, to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #### Text for Constance’s first grid of letters:
> 
> A – Z  
> B  
> C  
> D  
> E  
> F  
> G  
> H – S  
> I  
> J  
> K  
> L  
> M  
> N  
> O – L  
> P  
> Q  
> R  
> S – H  
> T – G  
> U  
> V  
> W  
> X  
> Y  
> Z  
> 
> #### Text for Constance’s slightly fuller grid of letters:
> 
> A – Z  
> B  
> C – X  
> D – W  
> E – V  
> F  
> G  
> H – S  
> I  
> J  
> K  
> L  
> M  
> N – M  
> O – L  
> P  
> Q  
> R – I  
> S – H  
> T – G  
> U  
> V  
> W  
> X  
> Y  
> Z
> 
> #### Text of Athos’s translated letter:
> 
> Dear Constance,
> 
> I hope this message finds you well.  
> The weather here is abominable –  
> by turns unseasonably sweltering  
> and torrential. We are not yet  
> drowning, however.
> 
> I look forward to your reply.
> 
> With affection,
> 
> _Athos_
> 
> (Congratulations to those who got it right first try!) 
> 
> #### Text of Constance’s reply:
> 
> 24 Qzmfzib 1636
> 
> Wvzi Zgslh,
> 
> Nzmb gszmph uli blfi ovggvi, dsrxs ziirevw drgs w’Zigztmzm’h gsrh nlimrmt. R slkv blf szev grnv gl ivzw gsrh gl srn. R zn tozw gl svzi gszg blf ziv pvvkrmt blfi svzwh zylev dzgvi. Dsvm gsv uollwh irhv sviv, zh gsvb hgroo wl, uiln grnv gl grnv, R zn xlmurwvmg gszg r szev vevibgsrmt dvoo rm szmw.
> 
> Kovzhv gvoo w’Zigztmzm gszg R slkv sv rh yvrmt z tllw ylb, uli ylgs blfi hzpvh. R zn szkkb gszg blf ziv urmwrmt grnv gl yv prmw gl vzxs lgsvi – hlnvgsrmt R droo krxgfiv tozwob rm nb nrmw glmrtsg.
> 
> Yv dvoo, wvzi Zgslh,
> 
> Drgs tivzg zuuvxgrlm,
> 
> _Xlmhgzmxv_
> 
> (Have fun with that – yes, I’ll be making it harder for Constance and for you in future; any suggestions would be gratefully received (but not necessarily acted upon… straight away, at least).)


End file.
